


To Ignite A Flame

by sjoon



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Gender Not Specified, M/M, No Spoilers, Nonbinary Apprentice (The Arcana), Other, Porn With Plot, Pre-Canon, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Smut But With Exposition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:33:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23136226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sjoon/pseuds/sjoon
Summary: The apprentice returns home for a festival, and ends up with sand on their knees and a mouth full of more than what they were expecting.TECHNICALLY no spoilers ;)NB apprentice with they/them pronouns, Lucio masquerading as a top, a sharp-witted but thirsty apprentice, Fingers In Mouth, and some casual throat fucking. Y'know. Casual. Also a facial and semi-public sex because alleys don't have doors.
Relationships: Apprentice/Lucio (The Arcana), Lucio (The Arcana)/Reader, Lucio (The Arcana)/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 168





	To Ignite A Flame

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-read. I usually write in one sitting but this was actually about three or four, so I apologize if my language is repetitive anywhere. 
> 
> The apprentice has no mentioned gender or explicitly mentioned ...bits, they can be female, male, nonbinary, whatever suits your needs. I try to keep things as vague as possible to make the work more accessible to readers of all gender identities. 
> 
> Story doesn't contain spoilers, but this last note does:  
> The apprentice is called the magician because this is set basically pre-canon? I'm playing it as if the magician was originally MC/the apprentice, and they were the one who originally taught him magic before they died. I also use the term 'magician' to replace 'apprentice' because I hate to name to the MC when I write things like this just because of that sweet self-or-oc-insert action.  
> Because otherwise I might have to use, like y/n or something, and that's really not the vibe I want.

It had been years since they had been back home—though not for any reason beside an inherent wanderlust. The desert sky ahead of them was colored in splashes of pink and orange, a sharp contrast along the horizon which dimmed at the edge of clear, starry skies; a welcome and familiar sight. They loved Vesuvia, and their little shop—a place which sold the magic trinkets and ingredients they collected when they found themselves unable to keep their heart from wandering beyond the city, feet mindlessly forced to follow. Vesuvia was where they lived, where they kept finding themselves returning, but it wasn’t home. Not like the desert was.

The magician had left behind their apprentice in Vesuvia, after receiving the letter— a driven young thing with snow-white hair and a complexion not unlike the magician’s own, loathe to leave their side, but easily convinced with reassurances that they would always come back. They’d found him in the market, doing tricks and reading cards—selling jewelry as they once had, at his age; though Vesuvia was a far more bustling city than the one which stood ahead of them now.

The letter, clutched between their fingers, was the first word the magician had received from their family in years. _Come to the festival, this year_ —the letter had said— _the town has invited your count to entertain in the hopes he might bring us under Vesuvia’s protection in the coming years_. There was much to be concerned about, even in so little words. That their home might need protection, and that they had been away so long that Vesuvia was considered their place now, by others—

You could take the magician from the desert, but not the desert from the magician. Or… something like that.  
  
At the very edge of sandstone buildings, an unfamiliar structure had been erected; a tent, of heavily saturated red panels with golden accents. The style was unmistakably Vesuvian, a craftmanship they’d seen a thousand times before in the marketplace, though never quite on this grand a scale. As they passed, the magician couldn’t help but indulge their curiosity, letting their eyes linger where the flaps opened—though to no avail. Despite their best efforts, there was no way to properly look inside without making it obvious.

No matter; there were other subjects of which to attend.

Home was just as they’d remembered—loud and crowded and warm, filled with loved ones and a constant low hum of noise. Ones who had been knee height when they’d left could look them straight in the eyes, now; had it really been so long? The magician might feel nearly guilty for it if they had not been welcomed back so easily.

The festival had always been their favourite part of the year, though with time the beliefs in the gods for which it had honored had faded, but the traditions and merriment had grown only stronger. Overnight, the simple town was transformed. Strung between homes were paper lanterns of every colour imaginable, deep jewel-tones with intricate, hand-cut designs which allowed the light of the candles within to flicker out and illuminate the dust-and-stone streets. Swirls of incense catch the streams of tinted light, causing it to hang in the air like twirling magic, accented by vivid glittering powder tossed into the air by mischievous children.

It was nights like this one which reminded the magician why they had taken up magic in the first place; there was a feeling in ceremony, indescribable and individual, powerful yet whimsical while stoic and silent. A thousand contradictions shifted into something otherworldly and beautiful without compare. Smoke from the bonfire at the town’s center fills their lungs upon their approach, making them lightheaded and nearly dizzy; the herbs hadn’t bothered them at all in their childhood, but enough time away had made them weak to the effects.

Their role in this celebration was a practiced one, perfected over years of practice—the second the costume’s near-sheer silks laid against their skin, they could feel the movements in their bones; born into them by the sands and the wind. As the magician steps into the crowd, they make their way to the flames. A great bonfire of paper totems and pungent herbs; fire licks at the sky, reaching out to the twinkling stars and sending the smoke into the world above. It has been long enough that they don’t recognize the other dancers, but the dance has not changed.

The music begins, soft melody and plucked strings, and the magician’s fingers find the hilt of ceremonial blade. Each pass of the steel in the air follows the tune, mirrored by the other dancers to their sides—they feel young again, as if this was a ceremony of their youth, but it’s not. Something is different, and as their movement slows, they catch the difference in the reflection of polished metal, and for perhaps the first time in their life; their heart stills, breath catching.

Growing up, here, where everyone knew everyone, and one would come home to siblings and cousins and friends constantly was far from lonely—but it was a life where it was hard to feel properly special. Pushing through the initial shock of their discovery, the magician continues—because truly, what other choice do they have?

As a citizen of Vesuvia, they had seen the count before; he was the sort of man who commanded, no— _demanded_ attention wherever he went, and his presence among the desert people, in the midst of a grand festival not his own, was no exception. Until this moment, the magician was sure that the count had not ever seen them. There had been no reason for him to.

He was seeing them, now.

Silver eyes were on them with such intensity that they could feel it on their skin, burning through their entire being. The dance was heavy with skilled participants, younger and more beautiful than the magician, in their own opinion—but every time they spared a glance over one shoulder to check, those eyes hadn’t moved from their form.

And now, they were caught—eye to eye, gaze locked as time stood near still. Perhaps it truly did stop; flecks of flame suspended in air as the magician stumbled mid-turn, enchanted by the smirk which flickered like the fire across thin, pale lips.

Before they can register what their feet are doing, they’ve broken from the throng, stumbling from the pools of colored light into the relative safety of the shadows between modest houses. A feeling unfamiliar flows over them, hands shaking and heart pounding as it comes to be stuck in their throat. A lifetime had passed without such feelings, without being seen in such a way to make them feel anything but ordinary.

“Is it customary to leave before the dance is done?” Lucio’s voice was clear and cutting, despite the thrum of the music from behind him; the glow of the fire beyond silhouetting broad shoulders and glinting over the smooth gold of his arm. Something from within seemed to pulse with its own life, and their eyes trailed over it, hesitant to get lost in silver once more.

“No.” They replied, voice hoarse from the smoke, the sound rebelling as they had to force it past the heart of theirs which had lodged unceremoniously in their throat. Perhaps they were ill, nothing else could explain their strange condition, this mysterious ailment that made the alley spin and their heart clench when they found his eyes again. “I didn’t feel well.” They stumbled to the wall, fingers scraping over the stucco, desperate for an explanation— as if they owed it to him.

“You look well.” The count shoots back, closing in on them like a fox rounding in on a wounded hare; they both seemed well aware that the upper hand was his— the magician found it was hard to find it within themselves to be bothered by it. It bothers them, almost, that they _aren’t_ bothered. Who is this man to render them breathless with only a look? They are stronger than this, stronger than to be swayed by a glance and a single, well-timed compliment.

“Looks can deceive.” The magician makes the mistake of meeting his gaze, dark eyes snapping up from where they had been resting safely on the soft, gold cording of the count’s jacket. Lucio makes a show of breaking their gaze to look down at them, and he steps closer; the silks draped over them hide nothing, they realize, as they attempt to mirror his step into their space with a step away in the same direction— they are met only with the hard reality of the wall behind them, which is, though grounding, a barrier between them and escape.

Something which they are still, somehow, unsure they desire to do.

Their breath rattles in the silence—or, relative silence, as there is still music from beyond the alley’s confines. The sound feels muffled, far-off, as if there’s some barrier between them and everything else. They understand, logically, that there is not. Anyone who had noticed them both leave could come into the alley at any time.

Still, Lucio is silent, having moved entirely into their space. They are trapped between him and the wall, his gaze pinning them to it. The magician had not, in the past, worried about what might be seen through the layers of their ceremonial dress—but there was something in the way which he studied them which lead them to a nervous sort of worry. Self-consciousness bleeds red into their cheeks, teeth set tight against each other;  
“What are you looking at?” They ask, though they know.

“Something I want.” He replies, simply— voice sultry as he finally puts a hand on them. It’s said with the ease and confidence of someone who is not used to being told no. The magician twitches at his touch, the metal of his grasp cold and sharp on their waist. They can feel the fabric begin to bunch and strain, threatening to rip; hands clench to fists, unsure what to do until…

The sword. They hadn’t dropped it when they’d fled, for fear of the clatter the metal would make on the street. The magician’s knuckles had gone white against the hilt and they bring the blunt side near the count’s neck in a flash; they don’t want to hurt him; they just need space. Time. Air. Anything, to help them think.

They get none of these things. Thinking is off the table for the moment because Lucio only smiles, seamlessly calling their bluff.  
  
“You know why I’m here, don’t you?” Lucio condescends, speaking to them in a tone near-scolding as if they’re some misbehaving child. “Your little village wants my protection.” He grins wider and adds; “ _Vesuvia’s_ protection.” Just in case, because they should know who he is, but they also might be dumb. Country folk, and all that. He and Vesuvia were nearly the same thing, anyways; after all, what would the city even be without him?

The hand opposite the one which was still pressing against taut fabric at the magician’s waist fearlessly guides the blade away, and he verbally deals the finishing blow.  
“You wouldn’t want to mess that up,” The pause is a threat; thick, dark eyebrow quirking to an arch. “Would you?”

The magician can’t find the words, again. They shake their head; the entire reason they’d been called home from their journeys was to be of help, to attend the festival, to— the weapon is pulled from their grip all too easily, jammed tip-first into the dirt. The count was a man who always got what he wanted, and even for someone as headstrong as the magician, his confidence alone was daunting.

Then again, it wasn’t as if they weren’t enchanted with him, in their own way. Had he stepped into this alley and asked them politely to fall on their knees for him, the magician thinks that they would have. They still would, but they couldn’t imagine he was the sort to ever ask. The magician considers that it might be best to give him what he wants before he can ask—demand, or… whatever it is that the Vesuvian count was planning to do. This was, of course, not at all because they wanted to.

Perhaps if they continued to tell themselves that, it would become true.

Regardless, their mind had been stuck on a single thought—the sort of unfocused focusing that happens when one reads the page of a book and realizes that they haven’t consciously retained it and so become forced to skim over the words again and again and again;

On your knees, the thought prompted, over and over until their legs began to waver from the strain of staying upright. The magician hoped vainly that they might blame the incense for the fog in their mind, that perhaps this golden-haired tyrant had some magic of his own that forced them into such a state. The hand on their waist slides along them as they drop, the knock of their knees in the dust jarring them from their thought.

The count seemed nearly as shocked as they were, though his expression fades quickly to satisfaction, the tapered fingers of his gauntlet having traced up as they fell—they rest neatly on the magician’s shoulder. From there, to neck, to chin, the magician feels the metal against their skin once more, somehow less threatening now even if the metal points dug into their skin.  
  
“Eager, aren’t we?” He asks, though they cannot respond—words fail them, and his grasp keeps them from nodding an agreement. Perhaps it was better for their pride that they couldn’t admit it so obviously, though. Instead, their lips part, and they realize to their own paralyzing embarrassment, that somewhere between when they’d fallen and looked up, they’d begun biting down on their lower lip.

To be entirely truthful, the magician didn’t know entirely what the plan was, now that they were down here. It seemed the count had it covered, slipping his fingers into their mouth. The fingertips of his golden gauntlet press forward, the taste of sweat and polish and metallic tang spilling over their tongue with the intrusion; a soft noise escapes them, as they find the grooves in his armor, a looping pattern etched into the top layer which they hadn’t noticed at a distance.

“ _Beautiful_.” Lucio says, something in his voice is strange—breathless, nearly intimate, and it’s enough to make the magician pause. He takes the chance to pull his hand from their cheek, fingers wet from their mouth, and they try to follow the movement, but he’s too quick. Grabbing them by the hair, he crowds into what’s left of their space; they try to meet his eye, gauge what he’s thinking, but with their head held in place they can only see what’s directly in front of them.

The shape outlined in crimson breeches is unmistakable, and the magician’s jaw falls slack, excitement running through them. Perhaps he had expected them to fight, but they hadn’t an ounce of it in them, too enchanted by the thought that they had done this to him—he had been watching them and it had driven him mad.

Count Lucio pulls at the fastenings of his pants, becoming quickly flustered when he can’t manage it with a single hand. The magician takes in the sight of his flushed cheeks, their own deft hands without sword and worrisome fears of anything beyond the confines of this moment are now free to tug at golden plated buttons. They brush his fumbling grasp away to take care of it themselves, letting the velveteen panel fall and reveal all that’s underneath.

With a shuddering breath, the magician comes to a full realization of the situation they’re in. Lucio only grips their chin harder, tipping their head back as he slides gauntlet’s thumb over their lip and back into their mouth, hard cock pressed to their cheek. There’s panic, muffled, in the back of their mind, because they’ve never been in such a situation before. Overall, they’re at a loss of what to do—but it seems he, again, has it covered. In his eyes, there’s a look they’ve never quite seen before, an intoxicating longing that sets their heart pounding.

That’s what this night is, they suppose— firsts.  
  
That’s what the festival is all about, isn’t it? Beginnings and honoring gods? They feel about ready to pray to him, like this, on their knees. He says something, and the magician feels for a moment as if they should have, perhaps, been paying enough attention to catch the words.

“Just _beautiful_.” He murmurs, again, and they hear it all, this time—though their brain doesn’t quite match up, and tongue presses against the finger still in their mouth, metal edges sharp against the muscle as they open wider to ask _what, exactly, does he mean by that?_ They don’t get the chance. The count, ever-impulsive, takes their movement as an invitation.  
  
A weight, slick on their tongue as lips are held apart by unyielding gold, the count comes forwards until the magician feels their head trapped back against the wall behind them. They swallow hard and Lucio groans, spit-slicked gauntlet finding purchase in the hair that he’d brushed out of their eyes. If they could breathe, they might think it tender—but the look in those grey eyes speaks otherwise; wild, possessive, and it again sets the magician’s heart on a rabbit’s pace.

“I hope you know what you do to me.” He growls, as if it isn’t plainly obvious by their situation. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”  
_I know_ , they try to say, forgetting that to speak, one requires air—and at this moment, they aren’t exactly in a position to breathe. The noise gets stuck, a despondent whimper beneath watery eyes—his hold softens, he leans back, and they gasp for air.

“I take what I want.” Count Lucio looms above them, and they should be scared. They should be. They aren’t. The lights that float above flicker in starbursts as they stare upwards, the light seems to halo around him in lazy, lambent circles; he is golden, a god—but a god of nothing good. Even so, they want him.  
  
“Can you _take_ what is freely given?” The magician retorts, voice hoarse and throat feeling awfully empty. He laughs, which seems a callous thing to do with your dick on someone’s face, but his fingers twitch and the points scrape against their scalp.  
“Is that so?” He scoffs, and pulls harder at their hair; the magician merely leans into his touch, and it seems to catch him off guard. They’re tired of waiting—lungs full, they grasp tightly at maroon velour and pull him back towards them. Swallow him down as if they know what they're doing.  
  
They don't. 

It’s such a treat, to watch him come undone. The magician is minutely aware of the silks tight across their hips, of the tickle of fabric against them as they’re moved, of the feeling of friction on their tongue—a taste, unknowable, though quantifiable in vaguely in salt and metallic tang. These things are all secondary to him; their count, though tonight they mean it in a different way than they did before—if only for this moment where he has their head cushioned by his hand against the stonework, fucking desperately into their mouth as he quickly loses his composure. The glow rests high on sharp cheekbones, and platinum strands come loose, sticking to his skin where the soft veneer of sweat had collected.

As much as they want to burn every part of this experience into their mind forever, it’s hard to think beyond the unsteady rhythm, to hear past the groan is his voice that’s turned from something deep and masculine to something almost whiny in tone. The most they can do is be used, too far gone into the foreign pleasure of it all to be in the least humiliated by the noises that escape them. As the magician’s eyes flutter closed, they can feel their thighs trembling, body hot as Lucio stills beneath their hands which had roamed from where the loose fabric bunched over strong thighs to the soft skin beneath—nails digging mindlessly into the jutting curve of his hipbones.

He pulls away and oxygen floods their senses, the deep, shaking breath they take far different than the delicate gasps they had managed earlier; with their eyes still gently shut, they feel a slick warmth across their cheeks that drips, thick and lazy, to their lips. When they finally bring themselves to open their eyes, Lucio is merely standing there, cock in hand as he watches them—the look not unlike that which he had given them earlier, but somehow, now, there was a touch of something else. Accomplishment, affection, or—something else entirely; the magician wasn’t sure.

In the same way in which time had felt it had still about them, it speeds up all over again; the sounds of the festival crashing into their eardrums at an alarming volume, accompanied by shouts of the count’s name by unfamiliar voices. The man before them seems to be shaken from their trance at neat the same time, as his lips twist into a sneer and he turns to the noise, seemingly in no hurry to fasten his pants despite the promise of prying eyes on their way.

While his back is turned, the magician scrambles to their feet, and while they may be clothed still—the traditional silks hide little and the burning embarrassment hits them like a tidal wave of shame. Before the guards can approach from the opposite end of the alleyway, they round the opposite corner, sinking into the shadows to scrub furiously at their cheeks with the fabric of their clothes; the thin weave had, at some point, begun to stick to their thighs, and the drape was in obvious disarray, heavy and damp.

They count their blessings as they slip away, thankful to not run into anyone as they – don’t even finish the thought as they come eye to eye with the last person they want to see. Though, to be fair, just about anyone would fit into that category, right about now. A friend from the past, who had surely come after them out of worry. In hindsight, a fair move, but that didn’t make the situation any less mortifying;

“Are you alright?” She asks, and the magician can’t manage an answer—silence feels alien to them, but their mind races and their mouth can’t keep up. Her eyes scan them, and they know their situation is obvious. The magician lights up, though not literally, going red to the tips of their ears.  
  
“Oh,” Their friend says, they brace for the reprimand, but she only laughs—tossing her shawl over their shoulders. “I’m so glad we invited you back.” She says, with a smile, clapping the magician on the back in the sort of congratulatory manner one might expect from someone who had just witnessed the other score a goal in some sort of ball-game;  
“There’s _no_ way we won’t get Vesuvia’s protection, now.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, leave a kudo or a comment please?? they fuel my will to live. 
> 
> If there's other characters/things you'd like to read about from me that are arcana related... let me know with one of those comments? I work best with suggestions. 
> 
> Also I do nsfw art sometimes and you can find that on twitter under @princeofcocks, thx


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